


Giggle Water

by spunknbite



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Erotic Asphyxiation, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Grindel!Graves isn't a nice dude, Intoxication, Kink Meme, M/M, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 08:53:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8743393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spunknbite/pseuds/spunknbite
Summary: “My dear Credence, I wouldn't have taken you for an affectionate drunk.” His voice is soft and when Credence opens his eyes to see if he’s angry, Mister Graves is smiling at him, amusement apparent on his face. Credence smiles and presses his face into the crook of Mister Graves’ neck, nudging.Or, Grindelwald plies Credence with wine in the hopes of learning more about the Obscurus.





	

When he was twelve, Ma caught him drinking behind the pews with Jimmy Cowle and Abe Moore. Jimmy’s pa made bathtub gin on the weekends to sell for pony money, and Jimmy had snuck some out in an old jam jar, flashing it sidelong from his jacket pocket at Credence and Abe during the morning sermon. Afterwards, when the nave had cleared, the three boys sat in a circle hidden behind the last row of pews, passing the jar between them. It smelled like gasoline and burned his throat, but the feeling was bliss. The lasting sting on the back of his thighs from last night’s punishment dulled; the shame of his routinely mocked haircut and ill-fitting, cheap clothes forgotten; the anxiety that in an hour’s time he’d be back with Ma, unpredictable and unforgiving, evaporated altogether. There was no future, only a blurry, hazy now with his friends.

He was flayed, of course. His back, the soles of his feet, his ass, his hands. He was lectured, prayed over, nearly exorcised, forced to beg God and Jesus forgiveness for his sins. The worst though was Ma pulling them all from that church and moving them from their then reasonable two bedroom apartment over a bakery to the bachelor with the communal toilets overlooking an abattoir. It was convenient to their new church, according to Ma. The churches of his childhood ran together - was this before or after the one where the minister strapped him for annoying Billy Trumble? It was definitely before the one on 125th Street that Ma nearly torched for being too progressive.

Credence had learned his lesson well, like he had many times before and since. Do as Ma says, no drinking.

But now Mister Graves is here and everything is upside down; obeying Ma is no longer the only option. His confidence and ease are unlike any Credence has ever witnessed. He’s magnetic and magic. Actually magic. And so he’s in defiance of his Ma yet again, spending time with an alleged abomination, and worse yet, spending the rest of his time thinking about when he’ll next see that alleged abomination. Mister Graves’ hand is on his shoulder, warm through the thin fabric, and he looks at Credence with some worry. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Let’s get a late dinner, my treat. As a thank you for all your help.”

Mister Graves is scarcely taller than him, but is much bigger in every significant way. His fine coat trails behind him as he beckons Credence forward, out of the alley they had met in, and Credence is fairly certain that this coat alone is worth more than their rickety church. He’s thought about resting his head on Mister Graves’ shoulder so he could feel the rich fabric, feel the muscle underneath...but such thoughts are depraved.

The man exudes importance, prominence, stature, and yet here he is, choosing to be with Credence, needing his help of all people’s, and now asking him to dinner in appreciation. 

“There’s no need, Mister Graves. There’s soup at home.” He can’t seem greedy. If Mister Graves thinks him unworthy, more unworthy than he already is, he could leave. And then what would Credence have? 

“Don’t be foolish. You’re not eating that broth your mother’s always feeding those orphans when there's a perfectly fine diner not far.” There’s no refusing him, not when he wraps his arm loosely around Credence’s shoulder and tugs him down the street.

***

The diner is warm and inviting; it smells of hot coffee, toasted bread and lunch meats, a luxury for Credence who has never eaten anything but his mother’s philanthropic soups and oatmeals. But this place is far below Mister Graves, that is clear to Credence. The other patrons are working-class families; men in overalls sip coffee with their tin lunch boxes under the tables, mothers in dated dresses persuade children to remain in their seats, and Mister Graves walks by them, far too aristocratic, far too magical for the likes of this place.

Of course Mister Graves could never take him somewhere he actually frequents. His threadbare clothing, his hair, his - what did Mister Graves call it - his No-Maj status; he’s not suitable for any reputable establishment, the sort of place that Mister Graves would want to spend time. Maybe one day though, after he’s found the child...

Mister Graves leads him to a booth near the back of the diner, and Credence shuffles in, sitting opposite the older man. “How long do you have before your mother returns?” Mister Graves passes him a menu, but doesn’t open his. 

“A few hours. She took Chastity and some other members of the congregation to protest a Catholic night mass in Harlem. She thinks their rituals are occult.” Credence is startled by Mister Graves’ snort; their eyes catch as Credence looks up from the menu. Mister Graves is half smiling, eyes alight, an eyebrow cocked, a dare for Credence to smile back at the absurdity. Credence feels a slight blush warm his cheeks and a small smile peeks through quite accidentally. 

Looking back at the menu, he’s knows logically that Mister Graves can afford this easily, but the prices are still startling; he’d never be able to eat here. As if reading his mind, Mister Graves says, “Order whatever you’d like, Credence. The sandwiches are excellent.” 

“You eat here, sir?” 

“Often. The Woolworth Building isn’t far from here. I lunch here a few times a week. It’s convenient and relatively quiet. No MACUSA business to disturb me.” Credence nods, as if he understands what MACUSA means.

The waitress arrives to take their orders and mercifully looks to Mister Graves first. He orders water and a rye sandwich, and Credence, not understanding most of the menu anyway, asks for the same, his eyes downcast. 

Once the waitress leaves, Mister Graves smiles at him. “I want to thank you, Credence. You’re truly doing a service to the Wizarding World in helping me with this.” He feels another flush spread across his cheeks, and he tries to meet Mister Graves’ eyes, but the man’s stare is so intense, so overwhelming, that he just can’t hold it.

The water is deposited on the table and Credence reaches for it, suddenly thirsty in the wake of Mister Graves’ stare. Before he can grab it though, the cup shifts, untouched, to Mister Graves’ side of the table. The man is still smiling, his wand in one hand.

“Why don’t we toast you properly, Credence?” With a soft tap of the wand on the table, the contents of both cups, once transparent, is now a sparkling, amber-white colour. Credence’s cup shifts back to him. “Prohibition be damned.”

He doesn't want to seem ungrateful, because he's so very grateful, grateful for everything Mister Graves has done for him. He's cared for him like no other person he's known, tended his bruises, taken the pain away, showed him honest magic, but more than anything, he's given him hope - hope that there's something better for him than a sad, dilapidated church, cold soup, threadbare clothing that doesn't keep the winter out, and a Ma that beats him mercilessly. Mister Graves has given him a whole new world, so of course he can't refuse him this request, can't slight him by snubbing a kindness. Another kindness of so, so many. Credence whispers, “Thank you, Mister Graves,” and takes a sip. 

It’s cool and sharp, maybe a little fruity. It decidedly does not smell like gasoline or burn his throat when he swallows. “Just some wine, a half decent one,” Mister Graves says.

“Water into wine,” Credence breathes, more to himself than to Mister Graves, as he takes a second sip.

The sandwiches come soon after, and Mister Graves was right, they are excellent, although Credence has little to compare them with. The wine is better though, and as they eat in companionable quiet, Mister Graves refills Credence’s glass once he empties it.

He feels a little sluggish halfway through his second glass. Was wine normally this strong? He hadn't thought it was; they drink it in some churches, after all. Perhaps wine is different in the Wizarding World. Or perhaps it’s just strong and good because Mister Graves made it, and he’s so strong and everything he does is good.

It’s not an unpleasant sluggishness. It feels freeing, this light haze that seems to surround everything. His Ma, the church, his general inadequacy, his unworthiness of Mister Graves’ company, it all seems so far away that it’s rendered blurry and insignificant, almost nonexistent in its distance from him. He takes another drink, deeper this time.

“I know you're trying so hard to help me, Credence.” 

“Yes, Mister Graves.” 

“But I wonder, perhaps you've neglected to tell me something, some minor detail that might prove important. It's so necessary that we find this child.”

“No, Mister Graves. I mean, yes, Mister Graves. I mean, yes it's important that we find the child, but no, I'm not keeping anything from you.” Another sip. It tastes good; he wonders what Mister Graves tastes like. A sinful, deviant thought.

Mister Graves refills his cup again and pushes it towards him. “You have to understand, Credence, it’s not just for the good of the Wizarding community. It’s for me as well. If I don't locate this child, I fear for myself, my position. I'm asking you personally, as a friend, are you holding anything back? Maybe out of some loyalty to another, some conflict I don't know about. No harm will come to the child, I promise you that.”

Friend. The world around him stutters. “We’re friends, Mister Graves?”

“Of course, Credence. I've come to care for you very much.”

“I haven't had a friend since I was twelve, I think.” He hiccups and sees Mister Graves watching him with some intensity. It's easier to look at him now, hold his gaze with the shroud of wine. He feels a little bold.

“You most certainly have one now - have some more wine, dear boy - which is why I must insist you tell me anything you're hiding about the child. For my sake, as your friend.”

Hiccup. “I'd do anything you - ” hiccup, a violent one, “ask, sir.”

“And the child?”

“I'm trying so hard.” His voice is small, his almond eyes large and earnest. “I wouldn’t deceive you.” 

A pause while Mister Graves watches him, surveying him in a way that would make Credence blush if not for the wine. Then, “There, there, my boy. I just wanted to check. I believe you.” Mister Graves squeezes his hand from across the table and Credence squeezes back. He doesn't want to let go. He doesn't want this to end - the evening out with Mister Graves, the warmth of the diner, the blissful escape of the wine - all of it, he wants it to last forever. It's sinful, so sinful, but the sin doesn't matter now. It's so removed, stuck in a past that doesn't seem relevant. All that matters is right now with Mister Graves. “Finish your drink with me.” Of course Credence obeys. 

When did the waitress return? The plates have been cleared, the glasses contain water again, and Mister Graves is counting bills to leave on the tabletop. “Come, Credence. It's getting late.” The floor is quite unsteady beneath him; it seems crooked and angled, while simultaneously moving under his feet. Mister Graves supports him as they walk out of the diner, and the other tables melt together as Credence passes. Outside is overwhelming; the traffic blurs in the street and the lamp posts glare a violent, angry orange. Only Mister Graves’ arms keep him grounded. 

“I didn' know wine coul’ do this.” He thinks his words are slurred, but he can't tell for certain; his own voice seems so far away. “I didn’ think I had tha’ much.” 

“I’ll Apparate you home - ”

“Please don' send me home yet, Mister Graves. It's so nice out with - ” hiccup “you. I don' wanna go back there. You're so warm and I’m - ” hiccup “always cold.” He closes the scant distance between them and finally rests his head on his shoulder, feeling the fine fabric of the coat, memorizing the firmness of the muscle beneath. Mister Graves cards his fingers through Credence's hair, and Credence unabashedly tilts his head forward, giving him better access.

Mister Graves is silent, stroking the back of the boy’s head, his fingers lingering on his neck. Finally, “And where would you like to go, Credence?”

No hesitation. “Anywhere with you.” 

Mister Graves guides him to the side of the diner, to the cramped alley between it and its neighboring building, out of sight from street traffic. They Apparate into the cool night.

***

The building they appear in front of is lavish, a tall, but narrow structure with columns surrounding its entrance. Credence brushes his fingers against one as they pass; is that what marble feels like? A doorman holds the ornate door for Mister Graves and nods at him as they enter, Mister Graves’ arm still tight about his waist, helping him forward. Credence wants to stop and luxuriate in the foyer; plush, intricate carpet, tapestries on the wall, statues and busts made of - is that gold or bronze? - and a ceiling so high Credence can only see the indistinct sparkle of what must be a chandelier; it's the sort of establishment Mister Graves belongs, and he’s bringing him here. The foyer is spinning slightly, but Mister Graves has him, and moves him to a flight of stairs heading downward, the banister a rich, dark wood.

“Is this  magohamy - magohany - mahogany?” That's the right word, right?

“I didn't know you're interested in architecture, Credence.” They're moving down the stairs very slowly. Mister Graves has hold of both of Credence’s hands and he's taking the steps backwards so that he can face Credence.

“Read about it in a book...it's nice.” Mister Graves is smiling at him as they reach the landing. 

“Nearly there. We’ll get you sitting down soon.” They walk down a narrow corridor with dark wooden walls. More mahogany? Credence stumbles into the wall and lets his palms rest on it for a moment, before Mister Graves sets him right and helps him on. This must be what happiness feels like, he thinks, touching Mister Graves’ hand like this. 

The end of the corridor is guarded by another doorman. He's huge, inhumanly tall and nearly as wide, with blunt features that look a little...off. Credence blinks up at him, trying to place what's wrong, but he can't keep focused; the man and the corridor keep swaying. The giant man nods at Mister Graves, clearly recognizes him and then looks in Credence’s direction. He mumbles something to Mister Graves, and a wicked smile showing unnaturally pointy teeth spreads across his distorted face as Mister Graves replies, too quiet for Credence to hear above the whooshing sounds in his ears. Credence leans closer to Mister Graves, closing his eyes momentarily and steadying himself. He hears the door opening and follows Mister Graves through the threshold.

The sound hits him only the moment he enters, as if it couldn’t escape the room even with the door open. Jazz music and talking and laughing and dancing, the staccato beat of heels across a dance floor. A bar stands on the far wall, crowded with elegantly dressed patrons sipping drinks out of fine glasses. A couple is pressed kissing against the near wall, and Credence desperately wants to watch them, having never seen any sort of display like that, but Mister Graves guides him forward, past the crowded dance floor, past the stage, - wait, is the lead singer bald? And her features, exaggerated with huge eyes? - past an exceptionally short man with a large head arguing about his tab, past a tall, pale man who smiles predatorily at Credence, baring alarmingly sharp fang-like teeth. They stop at a small, empty booth on a platform. Mister Graves holds Credence by the waist and helps him up to the seat, a few steps up from the floor, and he follows. He doesn't sit across from Credence, like he did at the diner, but instead slides next to him, their thighs touching lightly under the tabletop. Credence flushes and smiles, actually smiles. 

“You look so nice when you smile, Credence.” And Mister Graves is smiling at him, so he smiles more.

“It's an - ” the hiccups have returned, “honest speakeasy.”

“That’s right.” Mister Graves shrugs off his coat and scarf, revealing a fit vest and starched shirt. He motions with his hand and the coat and scarf fly to a hook on the wall behind them.

“Mister Graves! Can you do tha’ here?” Wait. Credence tries to focus on the patrons by the bar. It's so hard to concentrate, but some are dressed a bit off - that woman is wearing the sort of hat pictured in Ma’s pamphlets. Are those drinks flying to that table? And squinting at the singer again, her proportions seem all wrong, almost inhuman. He looks over at Mister Graves, who’s observing him closely. “Is this place magic?”

“I thought you could use a special treat.” Mister Graves tugs Credence’s jacket off, his fingers feel so intimate on his neck, and with a flick of his wrist, it joins the hook.

Credence tries to commit all of it memory; the different people, - not all of them are human! - the sound of the music and how some of the instruments, he sees now, are playing by themselves, the floating candles lighting the otherwise dim tables and booths; he needs to remember every detail, knows it can help sustain him when Mister Graves is too busy to visit, during the stretches of time when they’re apart for weeks. If only he could see everything properly. The delightful haze makes focusing on any one thing so difficult.

Mister Graves makes a motion to the bar, and four small glasses of a clear liquid soon fly to the table. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever tried shots before?” Credence shakes his head, trying to say something, anything, but the words won’t form. He’s so lucky to have a friend like Mister Graves, who sits so close to him that he can now smell his aftershave and the musk of his cigarettes. It’s intoxicating, far more so than any alcohol. He wants to go home smelling like Mister Graves, so he can take just a little piece of this night with him.

“All in one go,” Mister Graves instructs, handing Credence one of the glasses. He clinks it with his, winks, and they both drink.

This one burns a bit, unlike the wine, but it’s a pleasant sort of burn that warms his perpetual cold. It doesn’t taste like much of anything, maybe a little like a medicine that Ma gave him once when he was small and ill, and Credence finds himself leaning heavier on Mister Graves’ shoulder, better able to feel his muscle now that his coat is removed. “These take effect quicker than the No-Maj stuff.”

“Than’ you, Mister Graves.” Yes, he’s fairly certain that he’s slurring. Why isn’t Mister Graves slurring? Must be used to this; higher tolerance, he thinks it’s called. Plus he’s so much bigger than him, firmer than him. That must affect it. “It’s so good of you to take me - so good of you to let me - so good of you - ” He’s not sure what he’s trying to say. He closes his eyes, curls up against him and prays to whatever God he’s surely offending that this night doesn’t end yet.

“My dear Credence, I wouldn't have taken you for an affectionate drunk.” His voice is soft and when Credence opens his eyes to see if he’s angry, Mister Graves is smiling at him, amusement apparent on his face. Credence smiles and presses his face into the crook of Mister Graves’ neck, nudging.

“Can’ feel my face.”

“Yes, definitely drunk then.”

“Please don’ - don’ - don’ take me home yet.”

“We still have plenty of time.” Mister Graves’ hand is in his hair, petting him softly, like he’s something precious, something to be cherished.

He wants to kiss him. Like Billy Trumble kissed him once after bible study, sloppy and wet and warm and good. Like that couple, still pressed against the wall near the entrance, legs entwined and mouths locked. He wants Mister Graves to hold him like, touch him like that. Touch him like he does in the thoughts Credence sometimes has in the night, the ones that leave him aching in sinful ways, rocking against his mattress for relief because he doesn’t dare touch himself, doesn’t dare sin in case Ma finds out.

He reaches for the remaining shot, misjudges where it is on the table, and knocks it slightly, spilling half the liquid. Mister Graves chuckles and hands him the full shot, taking the spilled one for himself. “I may have to cut you off.” His voice is rich and deep and it’s everything. Just everything. Mister Graves clinks their glasses together again and Credence swallows the liquid in one go.

Mister Graves’ hand is still in his hair and Credence is fairly certain it’s the only real thing in the speakeasy. The world around him is nothing but dimness punctuated by spots of blurred light and unintelligible noise, but Mister Graves is solid next to him, carding his fingers through his hair. He needs...he needs…

He’s leaning up, pressing his face against Mister Graves’ face, mouth a little open, rubbing his smooth cheek against the rough stubble of Mister Graves’ chin, going by feel alone. His eyesight fails him. “Mister Graves, please,” he breathes, touching their lips together.

He tastes vaguely medicinal, like the shots, and also like his cigarettes, even though Credence hasn’t seen him smoke today. His lips are soft in sharp contrast to his stubble and so, so warm. Credence opens his mouth sloppily; he wants more, he wants it all, even though he has no idea what all entails. Just please, please make the cold go away. Please warm me from the inside out, he thinks.

Mister Graves is cupping his face with one hand, or at least he thinks he is; he still can’t fully feel his face, and he’s whispering something. His voice is distant even though he’s speaking into his ear, his lips almost brushing the shell.

“ - teeth. Don’t work so hard at it, just open your mouth and I’ll show you.” Mister Graves presses their lips together again and Oh God, he does want this too; he's not being pushed away, not being rejected. Mister Graves runs his tongue against Credence’s bottom lip and he moans at the intrusion and tries to keep his mouth pliant as Mister Graves kisses him deeper, sweeping his tongue _inside_ his mouth now. Credence moans again, pulling away panting, overwhelmed. “Have you never kissed anyone?” Mister Graves runs his thumb across Credence’s lips.

“Billy Trumble kissed me when I was ten, I thin’.” More slurring. “But a few days la’er he hit me and told me to stop coming ‘round. Then the minister strapped me because I was bothering Billy. Then some of the boys strapped me after church for fun because Billy told them I was a sissy. Then - ”

“Hush.” Mister Graves, stroking Credence’s collar, kisses him again, teasing Credence’s tongue with his own. “I won’t ever tell you to stop coming around. We’ll find the child together and then every night can be like tonight.”

“Please.” His voice breaks.

The surrounding noise, bleating and indistinct, increases and Credence is vaguely aware that the band has switched songs, playing something more uptempo. He looks around, squinting at the dancing couples, suddenly aware that kissing Mister Graves, kissing a _man_ , publically like this will get them arrested. A hot wave of panic hits him. “Is it safe here?”

“This place caters to all things illegal. No one will bother us. You’re safe with me, Credence." Another kiss, deep and wet and good, and please-don’t-ever-stop-keep-touching-me-yes. He’s sinfully hard, but it doesn’t feel shameful here like it does in bed after praying. It’s freedom like he's never felt before. It’s the liquor and the jazz and the magic and Mister Graves’ big hands urging his hips upwards, pulling him down on his lap so that he’s straddling his thighs. He can’t hide his own arousal and he doesn’t try to, instead he grinds down on Mister Graves’ lap, rubbing his ass against the man’s erection, hot and hard beneath him.

“Now where did a good boy like you learn that?” Mister Graves is smirking, but his eyes are dark and desperate, his voice throaty.

In his thoughts at night, eyes squeezed shut, hips thrusting against the sheets, he does this sometimes. Behind his eyelids, Mister Graves would strip them both and have Credence grind against him, and in that fevered state the sheets under him are his Mister Graves. He wishes he knew more of what men do together, so he could please Mister Graves better. He’s read about sodomy in the bible, but there must be more, there must be so much more, and he wants it all.

The world around him is unsteady and the noises of the speakeasy fade in and out, but he continues to roll his hips backward and forward. The sensitive underside of his balls rubs Mister Graves with each movement, sending shocks of pleasure up his spine. Do men touch each other there? Is it supposed to feel this good? His breathing grows erratic as he presses down further on Mister Graves’ lap. Does this feel good for him? It must, he’s breathing loudly, and squeezing Credence’s ass, guiding him back and forth quicker, harder. The notion that he could be pleasing Mister Graves, that this strong, perfect man could be aching because of him, worthless, poor, ugly him, it’s overwhelming and Credence whimpers, feels himself leaking in his trousers, a slight dampness spreading across the front.

Mister Graves holds Credence’s hips firmly, stopping his thrusts. Credence whines and tries to resume grinding, but Mister Graves keeps him still. “What a pretty slut you are.” A wave of intense pleasure hits him at these words, and he sobs desperately, his hips bucking up wildly. He feels scattered and spread thin, but still he somehow knows that if he was sober these words would horrify him. Mister Graves is so good and magical and he just wants to please him, be good for him in return. And good boys aren’t sluts. But the way Mister Graves said it, it certainly didn’t sound like a condemnation. “Desperate, aren’t you, Credence?” Definitely not a condemnation.

He moans and grinds again, nodding furiously. He is so desperate. He wants Mister Graves in every way he’ll have him.

Some movement and an untangling of limbs. Mister Graves is out of the booth and helping Credence shift over and stand up. He wobbles immediately in Mister Graves’ arms. The world has tilted again now that he’s standing, and walking seems impossible. “What a lovely mess you are.” Mister Graves holds him up as they walk, steering him by the shoulders and catching him when his knees buckle.

Mister Graves leads him down a corridor behind the bar; a turn, then another one, then considerably more that Credence can’t recall, down a series of dimly lit passages that quiet with each corner, the jazz music becoming increasingly distant. The halls are deserted save for a few couples, writhing and moving against one another, breathing sounds loud and perverse. Credence wants to watch, wants to see every filthy, sinful detail, but he is so dizzy and Mister Graves is leading him onwards. Finally Mister Graves presses him up against a lonely stretch of wall - mahogany, Credence feels with his fingers - and asks, “Can you stand, leaning against the wall?”

He’s not sure he can. His legs feel numb like his face, and the corridor is dangerously slanted. But he’s aching for it, whatever it is, whatever Mister Graves wants to do. “Y-Yeah,” he nods and regrets it, the world around him twisting violently.

Mister Graves kisses him again and Credence kisses back, trying to remember what he was taught, trying to be good and pliant as Mister Graves touches their tongues together. He wants to taste him everywhere; he wants to devour him whole. When they pull apart for air, Credence sucks hard on his neck, kisses upwards to his ear, lapping at the stubble there. It’s so rough, so rough he can almost feel it with his numb lips.

“My little, needy whore,” Mister Graves whispers, and Credence loses his balance, a reactive thrust of his hips shaking his body, but Mister Graces keeps him upright. “Look at you. If you were a woman you’d have soaked through your trousers by now. Your pussy would be dripping.” Credence kisses him manically, trying to find some relief against Mister Graves’ solid body, but he’s held back just enough to keep their hips from meeting. “Not just yet. You’re so beautiful when you’re desperate like this.” A pause while Mister Graves watches Credence’s fruitless rut, smirking. “You _are_ dripping, darling. You've ruined your trousers, wet little cunt.” The wet patch on the front of Credence’s trousers has expanded, and Credence can feel his continued leaking, fuelled by Mister Graves’ degrading words. He wants to be used like this, wants to be Mister Graves’ pretty whore, wants to be special enough to warrant this.

“What’s my whore going to do for me?” Mister Graves unbuttons Credence’s vest and shirt, exposing his bare chest to the cool air of the corridor. “How’s my whore going to please me?” His shirt and vest and tossed carelessly on the floor, and Credence shivers as Mister Graves thumbs his nipples.

Credence reaches for Mister Graves’ tented trousers and squeezes the hard length like he’s never had the courage to touch his own. He’s thick and weighty and Credence desperately wants to pleasure him; he palms the unfamiliar hardness, feels it pulsing under his fingers, and squeezes again, rubbing experimentally.

“You can do better than that, Credence. Don’t tell me you’re shy now.”

“I don’ - I don’ know wha’ men do.”

“I’ll teach you. Make you into the dirty slut you’re meant to be.” He’s unbuttoning Credence’s trousers, pulling them down along with his underwear and Credence should embarrassed, would be horrified if he was sober - naked, save for his shoes and socks, and aching, arousal out and dripping shamelessly, ass pressed up against a wall in a speakeasy. Anyone could round the last corner and see him like this, see how perverse and wanton he is. But he’s not sober and he’s not horrified and he moans loudly, inviting attention, as Mister Graves keeps rubbing his nipples, pinching them sharply. He didn’t know they were sensitive like this, didn’t know his body was capable of feeling something like this, and he cries out, begging nonsense.

“Please - need you - wanna - wanna - please - let me - ”

Mister Graves is steadying him, helping him to his knees, switching their positions so that he’s standing against the wall with Credence kneeling obediently in front of him, as if in prayer. He pulls himself out of his trousers and - Oh God, he’s so thick and veined and red and everything Credence wants, everything he thinks about at night.

“You’re going to suck my cock like the good whore you are, aren’t you Credence? You’re going to enjoy me fucking your mouth.” Eyes wide, he nods, sending the uneven world around him spinning yet again. The thought had never occurred to him; it’s so dirty and depraved and awful and please-Mister-Graves-let-me-try-oh-god-please-let-me-taste-it. His own arousal - no, cock - bobs longingly, leaking so much that small pool has formed on the rough stone beneath him. So many lewd words - cock, fuck, pussy, cunt, slut, whore - he wants Mister Graves to keep using them so he can feel the electric spark shoot down his spine at each filthy word. Please call me a slut, he thinks, please call me your slut, your whore, your wet cunt to be fucked raw, please, please.

He opens his mouth and inches forward, nudging the head with his partially numb lips. It’s blunt and hot and he doesn’t know what to do, but he needs it, so he pushes his lips over the head, feeling it throb in the front of his mouth. He moves his tongue experimentally, like Mister Graves showed him when kissing, and rubs it against the slit, tasting faintly of salt. He slips his tongue up and over the head, lapping repeatedly, always returning to the slit for another hint of salt. This is what Mister Graves tastes like, he thinks idly, stroking the slit again and again with his tongue, I’m lucky enough to know what Mister Graves tastes like.

“Such a good slut. You're hungry for it, aren’t you?” Credence moans affirmatively and is rewarded with Mister Graves’ hand in his hair, stroking leisurely. “I knew you wanted it since we met, and I’m so glad you see that now, see what you truly are.”

Credence gasps around Mister Graves’ cock and his hips give an involuntary thrust. He takes more in his mouth, the head now too far back to tongue the slit properly. Instead he circles the sides with his tongue, trying to get a good angle, trying to make sure he doesn’t use his teeth. Mister Graves’ grip on his hair tightens and his other hand comes to rest protectively against the back of his neck.

“Relax your throat and hold nice and still for me.” Credence tries but the floor is moving beneath him and the world still swirls up and down, as if he’s on a boat. He steadies himself, bracing one hand against the wall. “There’s a good little whore that knows his place.”

Holding Credence’s head stationary, Mister Graves thrusts forward slowly, his cock pushing against the back of the boy’s throat and then down some. Credence gags at the first contact, and wills himself to relax, to stay still despite the heaving in his chest and his initial, overwhelming reflex to pull back. He can’t breathe, he can’t think. His lips wrapped around the root, face pressed into a thatch of hair, he feels tears running down his cheeks and he jerks his head back in panic, needing air, the world blackening around him, but Mister Graves’ hold on his head is firm.

Mister Graves doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust forward or back. “Breathe through your nose and get used to this feeling. A sweet little whore like you needs to learn how to take a cock.” Credence’s panic doesn’t abate, the sense of confinement still crushing, but he breathes frantically through his nose and that helps. He no longer feels like he’ll pass out.

His tone is softer than it’s been all night. “I know it’s frightening, but you’ll be so good at this. I know you want it, Credence. Look at the mess you’re making.” Unable to move, Credence glances down at his lap as best he can and is startled by the lewdness of it; his cock is grotesquely red and purple, standing very nearly straight against his stomach, white fluid leaking continuously from the head. It’s everywhere, down the underside of his cock, in his pubic hair, stuck to his stomach and down his thighs, dripping to the growing pool on the stone. “Have you caught your breath?” Credence nods, eyes closed, clinging to Mister Graves’ hips. “We’ll start nice and slow.”

Mister Graves pulls his cock out, leaving only the tip inside. Credence hurriedly sucks in air just before he pushes back in, cock once again hitting his throat, causing more gagging. And again. And again. And again. A slow, even rhythm, of push and pull, Credence’s head held firmly in place, unable to move.

Credence’s initial panic calms. He’s figured out the pattern of the breathing and no longer feels faint, and the pressure on the back of his throat, that sharp gagging sensation, lessens with each thrust. He looks up at Mister Graves and lets out a muffled moan around his cock at the expression on the man’s face. Eyes closed tightly, face twisted in concentration, mouth slightly slack, he’s so obviously enjoying this, and it’s because of Credence, because he’s pleasing him properly. Mister Graves’ eyes open at Credence’s moan and he removes one hand from the back of the boy’s head to caress his chin, slick with drool.

“My good little slut. Your mouth’s better than any cunt I’ve had.”

He increases the tempo, but Credence can manage it now that he’s seen what it does to Mister Graves. It’s uncomfortable, but there’s something comforting in the motion, something reassuring that with every thrust Miser Graves is back inside him, giving him this, allowing him this, warming him from the inside out like he needs. The regular thrust of his cock in and out and in and out keeps him grounded, keeps him safe in this one real spot amidst a blurred and hazy backdrop.

“You think about me when you touch yourself, don’t you Credence?” He can’t answer, the wet slide in and out continues, but he nods as best he can, flushed. “Do you think of other men too?”

Mister Hernandez, who occasionally fixes things in the church when they can no longer be put off and ignored. Months ago the pipes burst and he walked around shirtless for half a day, Credence watching while he was supposed to be assembling pamphlets. He lay miserable in his bed that night, rutting against his mattress, eyes closed in a silent prayer that the pipes would burst again. Then there was Mister Thompson and Mister Stacey and Mister Hunter and Mister Hewitt and the man from the grocer’s -

He nods and Mister Graves thrusts in with more force, his gag reflex returning as the back of his throat is battered repeatedly. There’s no pause, no time for him to adjust.

“Such a whore.” Credence whimpers his agreement, trying to keep his mouth pliant as Mister Graves goes faster. “When I’m finished with your mouth, would you like me to find someone else to fuck it? It wouldn’t be hard here. And then another man and then another. Perhaps I’ll just keep you here for anyone to use, a naked little whore starved for cock.”

Credence’s hips buck and he sobs against the root of Mister Graves’ cock. He wants it so badly, for men to just use him like the slut he is, use his mouth and leave him for the next one. His balls feel heavy with need and he humps the air, searching for any relief.

“Touch yourself, Credence. I know you need it, you’re so hard having your mouth fucked like this.”

His fingers shakily wrap around the base of his cock. He’s never done it, doesn’t know how, but the image of him on his knees with anonymous men using him, degrading him, it’s too much. He squeezes and slides his hand up then down, trying to match Mister Graves’ speed.

“Look at me while I’m fucking you.” He looks up and meets Mister Graves’ eyes, his mouth stretched painfully open, strings of drool hanging from his chin, hand around his pulsing cock, moving erratically and desperately; he’s debauched, truly a slut.

“Stay still for me.” Mister Graves’ already tight grip on his head becomes painful as his hips piston at an overwhelming pace. Fast and hard, he pulls out almost completely before pushing back in, hitting the back of Credence’s throat roughly with each merciless thrust. Credence is crying again and gagging, the snot in his nose preventing him from breathing properly. “Such a beautiful whore, Credence,” he growls, thrusting harder and harder and harder…

His vision starts to dim as he tries to force air through his clogged nose, wheezing fruitlessly. The heavy ache in his cock, a need that’s been building since Mister Graves first found him, finally breaks and he’s choking around Mister Graves’ relentless cock, gasping for air and for pleasure as hot, white fluid streaks his stomach, his chest, a little hits his neck and chin, joining the drool. The world around him is hot and white and on fire, and then quite suddenly it darkens to blackness.

***

He wakes up to Mister Graves. I want to wake up like this all the time, he thinks, despite the hurt. And _everything_ hurts. His lips, no longer numb, feel swollen and chapped; his mouth is overwhelmed by salt and his throat aches so sharply that he knows talking will be difficult for days to come; he’s nauseated and dizzy, the world above him spinning violently.

Mister Graves is cleaning his face with a handkerchief. “You’re okay, Credence,” he states, running his hand down his cheek.

For the first time in the evening, he feels truly embarrassed. He is most certainly still drunk, but now that the need and the heat and desperation has dissipated, he’s left with a cold hollowness in his stomach, a mortification that Mister Graves knows all his secrets, the shame he carries hidden with him, his perversity. He closes his eyes, tears falling anew, and whispers, “I’m sorry,” so quietly Mister Graves can scarcely hear it.

“Why? Didn’t you enjoy tonight?"

“Y-Yes - I just - I know - I dunno. I know I’m a freak and now you do too and you’ll never see me the same.” Still slurring. Unable to sit up, he reaches pathetically for his discarded clothes. Mister Graves hands his pants to him while pushing his arms through his shirt.

“You’re not a freak, Credence. You’re a good boy who likes certain things that aren't so accepted by most people. I like them too. I enjoyed tonight.”

Credence can’t look at him anymore. “I wan’ it to happen again - I just - I just - I just don’ wan’ you to hate me.”

“I could never, dear boy. We’re friends, remember? Once you find that child we can be together always, and there’ll be no more of this worrying.” Credence leans into Mister Graves’ solid body, a body he’s felt and touched and tasted, and he wonders if it’s possible that he could find happiness like that. He catches Mister Graves’ eyes as he’s helped off the floor, and if Credence wasn’t so drunk, he would think Mister Graves’ expression was less than sincere.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fantastic Beasts Kink Meme.
> 
> Come join the depravity here: http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Always Obedient](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8831518) by [writingramblr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr)




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